


Twenty-one

by orphean



Series: Fathers & sons [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Super Sons (Comics), Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Background Relationships, Birthday, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:48:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27368305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphean/pseuds/orphean
Summary: Damian turns 21. His father throws him a party.
Relationships: Jonathan Kent/Damian Wayne
Series: Fathers & sons [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2008201
Comments: 10
Kudos: 107





	Twenty-one

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes you’re stressed about politics so you write 6k of soft fic with some background Superbat polyamory. this could be read as a sequel to my earlier fic Fathers & sons, but it’s only tangentially related. As for canon: what’s canon? never heard of it! I definitely have taken some liberties with canon, so I hope for your indulgence.
> 
> enjoy!

For generations, the Gotham Waynes had thrown a bash for their oldest son’s twenty-first birthday. It served many purposes. For one, it introduced the Wayne heir as a man; not as a child, not as a student. There, he could establish himself in the way he wanted, the party tailored to his every desire and whim. For another, it showcased the opulence of Wayne manor and its sprawling estates. The entire ground floor was opened up for the party, each room decked in decorations of silver and gold and gleaming gems. The walking paths around the estate were lit up, encouraging the guests to see and admire the miles of elegant landscaping. Finally, these parties sent an important message to the rest of the Gotham upper crust:

The Waynes were here. The Waynes were here to stay.

Thomas Wayne’s debut was the last of these parties. His son, the charming and elusive Bruce Wayne, wasn’t in Gotham when he turned twenty-one, and although he had thrown plenty of his own parties in the years following his return, they were rarely in the manor, and they were never about himself. It was charity, business, fundraising, and trade agreements. The champagne flowed but it wasn’t the same. The older set of the Gotham aristocracy, the ones old enough to have been invited back in the day, found themselves thinking of Tommy’s party, how his eyes had glimmered with hope for the future, with a whisky glass in one hand and his other arm flung around the shoulder of his soon-to-be fiancée.

It would’ve been nice, the rich old women and men thought, if there were more parties like that, but Bruce hadn’t been in town and none of his children were blood, so none of them were _really_ heirs. No one seemed to remember his youngest, the strange boy with green eyes and a mean smirk that no soap could scrub away. But one day, they did.

Wayne was a guest on _Good Morning Gotham!_. He was technically there to talk about the Wayne Enterprises latest charity run, though no one actually wanted to ask him about charity or running. His toothy grin glittered under the studio lights and his brogues were bright enough to reflect the studio lights. They talked about the things no one cared about: the charity run ( _Bruce, are you excited about the run? What’s your typical mile?_ Bruce, chuckling and leaning towards the pretty co-host, answered carelessly. _Eight minutes? What’s a good time? Let’s say whatever that is and cut a minute, Savannah_ ); the growing congestion in Gotham ( _Honestly, Dave, I never drive myself, so I can’t really comment_ ); the secret behind his perfect complexion ( _I hate to say it, but it’s snails. Say what you want about them as a meal, but their slime makes for one hell of a moisturiser_ ). Soon, the conversation turned to Gotham’s dining scene, and Savannah, angling for a date, asked if he’d been to the latest new hip cocktail bar. 

‘No, I haven’t been yet. It’s my son’s twenty-first next month, so maybe I’ll go with him when he’s old enough.’

Bruce grinned that grin that never seemed to reach his eyes, though no one ever noticed. Savannah just barely covered up her disappointment and Dave looked at the camera, calling for a commercial break.

That should have been it, but it wasn’t. Somehow, that tiny soundbite stayed in the public consciousness and all at once, everyone remembered the Wayne heir birthday extravaganzas. Less than a week later, every local magazine and paper had their own theories on whether there would be another party because, after all, the odd Damian was a true heir and he had yet to carve out his role in Gotham high society. 

* * *

Damian watched his father read the papers. He looked tired. Damian didn’t know when he had come home from patrol. He hadn’t been home when Damian had returned right at dawn. What should have been a straightforward night with Jon had taken a turn for the complicated when the bank robber they’d been chasing brandished a knife that could cut through kevlar, and the blade dug deep into Damian’s shoulder. Once the bank robber was down and left for the police, they returned to base and Jon patched him up. His fingers were delicate against Damian’s skin, carefully applying the butterfly bandages, smoothing over the adhesive with the pad of his thumb. Jon told him, in the quiet voice he saved for when he was actually worried, that he needed to be more careful. Damian bit his tongue and Jon moved away and Damian got dressed again. He should probably have Alfred look at the cut, but maybe he’d already had his hands full with Bruce.

Alfred was serving them all breakfast: Eggs Florentine for Damian and Dick, Eggs Benedict for Jason, Eggs Royale for Bruce. Dick and Jason thanked Alfred when he placed the plates in front of them. They returned to chatting with Tim about their cases and lives and Jason’s apartment’s roach problem. 

‘Thank you, Alfred,’ Bruce muttered when the plate of eggs and salmon appeared in front of him. He glanced over at Jason. ‘You should move.’

‘With what money, B?’ Jason said, cutting through the egg with the side of his fork, letting the yolk soak through the English muffin.

Bruce gave him a Look and returned to his paper, moving his coffee cup so he could keep reading while eating his breakfast. Damian craned his head. He had reached the financial news, which meant that the society pages were next. Damian had already read the papers this morning, and he wanted to know how Bruce would react when he saw the photograph. 

‘There were roaches _in my flour_!’ Jason said, jabbing a piece of bacon at Dick.

Dick stole the bacon and frowned at Jason.

‘First of all, _ew_ , we’re eating. Secondly, I always forget you’re a baker. Why don’t you ever bake _me_ anything?’

‘All you eat is lucky charms and instant ramen. I’m not going to bake something for someone who won’t appreciate it, dick.’ Jason said his brother’s name in such a way that it was meant as an insult, not a name, but he said it with a smile on his face.

Alfred returned with Tim’s breakfast (toasted English muffin, scrambled eggs, a tiny saucer of bearnaise sauce) and a platter of bacon. Jason grabbed a handful of rashers with his fingers. Alfred gently whacked his knuckles with the tongs and put them by the plate. A few moments later, he returned with a tray of juice.

‘Four orange juices,’ Alfred narrated as he placed a glass in front of each of them, ‘and a grapefruit juice for Master Damian.’

‘Where’s my grapefruit juice?’ Bruce sounded petulant.

‘They interact with your medication, Master Bruce, and you know this.’ Alfred brushed his fingertips against Bruce’s shoulder, the touch both an apology and reassurance. ‘I believe we might have some pomegranate juice?’ 

Bruce stared at his glass of juice, lips pursed. Damian knew that Bruce didn’t like his medication. He had relented after years of Alfred and Clark nudging and encouraging him. He was doing better.

‘No, orange juice is fine. And yes, Alfred, I’m taking them. I know you’ve been counting the pills.’ 

Damian took a sip of his grapefruit juice. He’d ask for orange juice next week.

‘So, what’s new with you, Timbo?’ Dick asked.

Tim dipped his fork in the bearnaise sauce and tried it. He frowned and set it aside, crushing bacon on top of his eggs. He started talking about what he was working on with the new Titans, the challenges of leadership and the promising new recruits. Even Jason was listening, chiming in with both reasonable and unreasonable advice. Dick rested his chin on the heel of his hand and listened to Tim.

‘Are you delegating? You gotta delegate.’ Dick said. Tim shrugged.

Damian paid half-attention to the conversation, keeping an eye on his father. Bruce turned the page.

If one didn’t know what to look for, one would think that Bruce didn’t react at all, but Damian knew. Bruce’s eyebrows furrowed for less than a second, and he blinked two, three times. He swallowed and stared at the page, stared at the photograph of his parents, young and alive and happy.

Damian had studied the picture for several minutes in the cold light of morning, perched on the kitchen island while waiting for the kettle to boil. Thomas Wayne was smiling at the photographer, his grin just like his son’s, his moustache not quite as thick as it would be in later years, immortalised in the portraits on the walls of the Wayne manor. By his side stood Martha Kane, her left hand bare of any rings. She was looking up at him with devoted eyes. Damian had wondered if she had looked at him like that when his father was growing up. He had wondered if she would have been a loving grandmother.

The photograph was attached to an article speculating on whether Gotham could hope for a return of the old coming of age party tradition.

Jason and Tim were arguing about the role of religion in early fantasy literature when Bruce cleared his throat.

‘Damian, we’re having a party for your birthday.’

His voice brokered no argument. That hadn’t stopped Damian before.

‘What if I don’t want to?’

‘The party’s not about you, Damian. It’s about the Wayne line. It’s about our reputation. Almost no one knows who you are. You may like it that way, but if you don’t control your public persona, someone else will.’ 

‘I don’t see why anyone needs to know who I am. I’m not taking over WE; Drake is.’ Damian stabbed at his spinach. Tim seemed surprised to be mentioned and looked up, a rasher of bacon in his mouth. ‘Keeping a low profile will allow me to focus on the mission.’

‘Keeping a _low profile_ means that people will start wondering about you, and if the wrong people start wondering about you, your identity could be revealed.’

Damian ground his teeth. He knew he wasn’t going to win the argument, but he didn’t like the puppeteering of the elite, the stuffy suits and the fake smiles. He understood why Bruce felt the need to do this, and he knew it was better to allow this. He tried to calculate how much of an argument he needed to have before relenting. His father was watching him, waiting for a scathing comeback. The others at the table were quiet for once, watching the conversation with rapt attention. Damian inhaled.

‘Fine. But I have conditions.’

‘Of course. You can manage as much of the details as you want.’ Bruce replied. ‘It’ll be your party.’

Alfred had appeared in the doorway. Damian glanced at him, and Alfred smiled.

‘Just two. No meat,’ Damian met his father’s gaze and hesitated for only a moment, ‘and I want to Jon to come.’

‘Reasonable.’ Bruce said as Tim chimed in for the first time in the conversation:

‘So, like, Damian, are you bringing Jon like a _date_?’

‘I want him to come,’ Damian insisted, and at Jason’s twisted grin, he realised the double entendre in what he’d said. He refused to blush.

‘I mean, replacement has a point, considering–’

‘Shut up, both of you.’ Dick threw pieces of napkin at both Tim and Jason, giving Damian an encouraging smile. Damian curled his fingers into fists, his nails digging into his palms. Dick turned to Bruce, his smile sugar-sweet. ‘That said – _I_ never got a party when I turned twenty-one.’

‘Hey, actually, neither did I!’ Jason exclaimed.

‘You were _dead_ ,’ Dick pointed out.

‘You could’ve done _something_. Like one of those fancy decorative cakes in the shape of a clown. Or – oh! – a clown piñata and a crowbar; there’s a perfect tree for it like fifteen feet from my headstone.’ Jason mimicked the strike of a cowbar while both his brothers looked at him with vague horror etched on their faces.

‘ _Jason_ ,’ Bruce warned before he looked over at Dick. ‘Dick, you weren’t legally my son until after your twenty-first birthday. And even so, Gotham doesn’t care about adopted children. Damian is my only biological son. As such, it is expected that I host a party for his birthday.’

‘My birthday is next Wednesday. Is the party happening then?’

Damian had already planned his birthday: breakfast with Alfred; training in the morning; a late lunch with his father; video games and films and take-out with Jon after that. He didn’t want to alter his plans.

‘No, it’ll be later. I’ll deal with it. All the food will be vegetarian, and of course you can bring Jon along. Anything else?’ Bruce had finished his food and folded the newspaper with the photograph of his father, putting it in his dressing gown pocket.

Damian considered.

‘You can bring Kent.’

His brothers looked nonplussed at this concession, but Bruce’s eyes softened. Maybe his brother didn’t know, but Damian did.

‘Thank you, Damian.’ His father smiled with his eyes, his mouth still carefully neutral. ‘Tell me if there’s anything else you want. Otherwise, I’ll take care of everything.’

* * *

‘This is great,’ Jon declared when he landed on the manor’s front porch, his hair swept into madness by the winds. ‘I’ve never been to such a fancy party. Thanks for letting me come, R.’

‘Damian, thank you,’ Clark echoed, touching down beside his son.

Damian had been waiting for them with Bruce. He shrugged and accepted Jon’s fist bump. Clark touched Damian’s shoulder before moving to Bruce, curling his fingers around his elbow and letting the touch linger. Bruce leaned into his touch, angling his head to speak into Clark’s ear. The two boys watched their fathers in silence.

‘Alfred decided your old suit was too worn. The new one’s in the wardrobe. Feel free to take any tie you want.’ 

Damian knew that it wasn’t Alfred who had made that decision, but he understood why his father would lie about it. Clark beamed, the same ray of sunshine as his son, and squeezed Bruce’s elbow before withdrawing.

‘Thank you, Bruce.’

Bruce kept his arms crossed over his chest and looked over the young men in front of him.

‘We expect the first guests in an hour and a half, and the caterers are setting up the last of everything. Ground floor is off-limits until that’s done, so go get ready. Jon: Alfred left your tux and shirt in Damian’s room, but let him know if you need a hand with anything.’ Bruce glanced down at Jon’s shoes. ‘Those need polishing. I’ll make sure Alfred brings you some shoe polish. I’ll be getting ready, but anything else you need, let Alfred know.’

Damian and Jon waited on the top step as their fathers walked inside, Bruce’s hand splayed across Clark’s back, leading the way.

‘Thanks for letting Dad come. I really appreciate it. Know your dad does, too.’

Damian didn’t expect Jon’s arm curled around his shoulder, pulling him into a one-armed hug. Jon was always so warm, and even more-so right after he had used his powers. He smelled of ozone and freshly-cut grass and morning sunshine.

‘You’re not old enough to drink; you needed a chaperone.’ Damian lied. Jon didn’t call him on it.

‘Come on, let’s get ready.’ 

Jon dragged Damian inside, stopping to take off his shoes (flecked with mud and grass) and leading Damian up the stairs. Jon’s hand was warm in his, soft and familiar. Jon was so very – Damian swallowed the thought. Once they had reached Damian’s room, Jon let go of his hand and placed his dirty dress shoes by the door, shrugging out of the Gotham U varsity jacket he’d been wearing and floating towards the garment bag with _Jonathan Lane Kent_ embroidered on it.

‘Okay?’ Damian asked, hands deep in his pocket.

Jon unzipped the garment bag and extricated the suit and dress shirt, holding the hanger carefully between finger and thumb as he lowered himself back to the ground.

‘Dami, this rules.’ He flung the clothes onto the bed before he pulled his t-shirt over his head.

Damian should look away, but instead he allowed himself to trace his eyes over Jon’s shoulders, down his unmarred back. Jon was lean and lithe and strong. If he were to touch him, Damian knew that his skin would feel like silk under his fingers, like coming home after forever away. Damian looked away and bit his cheek.

‘I’m going to take a shower.’ Damian collected his garment bag and held his breath when Jon half-turned and smiled at him.

‘Cool if I play some music?’

‘Go for it.’

Damian closed the bathroom door behind him and hung the garment bag on the door hook. He couldn’t identify the band Jon was playing, but he recognised the style, loud and heavy with synthesizers and an unrelenting bass line. He stripped out of his clothes and turned the shower on, brushing his teeth while waiting for the water to get hot enough. It was scalding hot when he stepped into the shower, the steam clouding the mirror. He lathered his hair and scrubbed himself down. He found himself thinking of Jon’s shoulders, the expanse of skin that never seemed to end, the dip of his waist. He turned the shower cold and decided not to think about Jon.

He shaved and towelled his hair dry before he got dressed: socks and underwear, dress shirt and slacks and braces. He tied his bowtie, the movements automatic. Damian calculated how long it could take Jon to get dressed and added another few minutes to be safe. He ran the wax through his hair, combing it in and working it with his fingers. He considered the colognes in his bottom drawer and selected one at random. He didn’t care for any of them.

‘Oh,’ Jon said when Damian reappeared, his voice surprised, ‘I thought you were gonna wear one of those – uh–’

‘A thawb?’

‘Yeah, right, thawb, that. Sorry, I should’ve remembered.’ 

‘I considered it,’ Damian admitted, pulling on his jacket, ‘but I decided against it. It would make me too noticeable.’

‘You wanna blend in at your own party?’ Jon asked, his grin as teasing as his voice.

Damian shrugged. He didn’t say: _why would anyone want to look at me when they could look at you?_

‘Could you help me with these?’ Jon held up the ends of the bowtie around his neck. ‘I watched a tutorial and everything, but I can’t get it right.’

Damian could tell Jon to watch another tutorial. Damian could undo his own bowtie and walk him through the steps. But: Jon _asked_.

‘Okay.’

Jon tipped his head back a little to give Damian more room to work. Since his growth spurt, Damian was taller than Jon, but not by too much. ( _A perfect height difference_ , Damian tried very hard not to think.) Damian worked through the loops, thinking that this should be easier for Jon than it was for him. Jon’s fingers were long and elegant; tying a bowtie should be _easy_ for him. Jon was pointedly not looking at Damian, his eyes trained on something to his right, his long lashes half-hiding those brilliant blues. Jon seemed to hold his breath and Damian tried not to brush his fingers against Jon’s throat. He could feel the heat on the back of his neck, a blush that he doesn’t want to reveal.

‘There.’

Jon steps away, pink brushing over his cheeks.

‘Sorry,’ he said, touching his tie, ‘thanks.’

Damian shrugged. Whatever he could say was inane. He tossed the dirty laundry off his chair and put on his shoes. Jon sat down on Damian’s bed (his _bed_ , Damian’s brain definitely didn’t remind him), and began brushing his shoes.

‘I didn’t mean anything by it, by the way,’ Jon started. Damian waited for him to continue the line of thought. He didn’t know what Jon meant by _it_ , and it would be dangerous to assume. ‘That I expected you to wear a thawb, I mean. You look–’ Jon glanced up, ran his eyes over Damian, and returned to stare at his shoes, working the brush over the heel of his shoe, ‘good. Like, really nice. Also, uh, I like your cologne. You smell nice. I, um, I got you a present. It’s stupid.’

‘What is it?’

Damian decided not to remind Jon that he had already given him a gift for his birthday – a birdwatching book. They had spent an entire day perched in a redwood, Damian finding birds and Jon flipping through the book to identify them.

‘There’s an inner pocket in my jacket.’ Jon’s face was still pink, and he kept brushing his shoe. It was _gleaming_.

Jon’s jacket smelled of him, sunlight and beautiful mornings, and Damian pulled out a small package wrapped in tissue paper. Inside, a green pocket square.

‘It’s, uh, it’s a pocket square. I thought it’d, um, it might match your eyes. If you wanted to.’ 

‘Oh,’ said Damian.

Jon looked up at him, his face burning. Embarrassment. He had finally started brushing his other shoe.

‘You don’t – you don’t have to wear it if you don’t like it. It was just a stupid idea, I didn’t –’

‘No, I will wear it. It’s – thoughtful, thank you.’ Damian folded the square and replaced his white pocket square with the green. He considered the white square. ‘Do you want–’

‘Are you supposed to wear pocket squares with these?’ Jon gestured at his tuxedo jacket.

‘Yes.’

‘Then, cool, sure, I’ll – I’ll return it, promise.’

‘You can keep it.’ Damian held the pocket square out and Jon took it after a moment’s hesitation. Their fingers didn’t touch, but Damian imagined his warmth. ‘I’ve got enough.’

Jon opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by a knock on the door.

‘Hey, it’s Clark. Either of you kids need anything?’

Damian opened the door. Clark was ready for the party, his new tuxedo fitting like a glove, his shoes perfectly polished. His hair was falling into his face, the curls more Superman than Clark Kent. Bruce’s fault, probably.

‘You need to fix your hair,’ Damian said.

Clark started pushing his hands through his hair and made an apologetic face at Damian before he looked him over.

‘You look nice. I like the pocket square.’

Damian touched the green fabric. He felt his heartbeat.

‘Your son gave it to me.’ 

Clark beamed, and Damian could see Jon in that smile.

‘Jon, those shoes are ready. If you brush them anymore you’ll wear through the leather.’

Jon floated off the bed and put on his shoes, leaning against gravity. He dropped back to the floor and pulled on his jacket.

Damian, most definitely, did not stare.

Clark approached, smoothing down Jon’s shoulders, ruffling his hair. He kissed his forehead and brought him into a brief hug.

‘You look great. We’ll need to get a picture for Mom before the do starts.’

‘She could have come if she had wanted to,’ Damian said. He liked Lois. She was a good mother. She was a good woman.

Clark turned back to him, his arm still around his son’s shoulders.

‘She was happy to have a night for herself. Last I heard, her plan was a bottle of prosecco, a bubble bath, and some premium TV. Or maybe she decided on romcoms.’

That _did_ sound better than the party.

‘Come on, you two. Bruce says the Gordons are about to arrive.’

Bruce had told Damian years ago that the secret to a good party was making sure at least a few interesting people arrive early. The secret to a bad party was to leave it to chance and discovering the first guests were the worst people you knew.

Damian hadn’t been involved in the planning of the party. He knew there’d be champagne. He knew the catered food was vegetarian. He knew there _wouldn’t_ be a petting zoo, but only knew this because his father had texted him to ask if he _wanted_ a petting zoo, before immediately following up and saying that the petting zoo was not happening because they didn’t do any events after 5 o’clock.

A petting zoo would have been kind of nice.

Still, the party was fine. Damian appreciated that his father had kept it understated, or at least as understated as he was able to away with. Yes, there was a live band. Yes, waiters passed constantly with fresh champagne flutes and trays of complicated finger food. Yes, the ground floor of the manor was thronging with men in tuxedos and women in brilliant dresses. But the party was fine.

They’d been mingling for perhaps an hour, Jon sticking close to Damian’s side, when Bruce appeared with two flutes. 

‘Champagne for you, ginger ale for you.’

‘I don’t get champagne?’

Jon pouted at Bruce. Bruce raised an eyebrow.

‘Last I checked, you were eighteen.’

‘You let _Dami_ drink when he was eighteen.’

‘He’s my son, Jon. I can’t make those decisions for someone else’s son.’ He clapped their shoulders. ‘Enjoy the party. Find me if you need anything. Damian, be polite.’

When Bruce had left, Damian turned to Jon.

‘Want to swap?’

‘Oh yeah.’

Damian wanted to keep a clear head for the party, and Jon liked to pretend he was misbehaving, even when neither of their fathers _really_ minded him drinking, even when he couldn’t even get drunk. They swapped flutes. The ginger ale tickled Damian’s nose. They nursed their drinks as they moved through the crowds and bounced from conversation to conversation, staying long enough to be polite, leaving before either of them got bored or angry. Damian made an excuse for himself and Jon when the topic turned to stock market fluctuations, and Jon said something about finding more appetisers and dragged Damian by his collar when an heiress started defending the American pork industry.

Now and then, individual guests approached Damian to offer their congratulations.

‘Happy birthday, Mr Wayne,’ a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a beer belly said. Damian bit back a comment that _Mr Wayne_ was his father. ‘I don’t know if we’ve met: I’m Patrick Stevens; I’m on the board of Wayne Medical.’

‘Damian Wayne.’ Damian had watched his father act enough that the broad smile came easy to him, his handshake firm. He gestured at Jon. ‘This is Jonathan Lane Kent.’

‘Son of Lois Lane?’ Stevens asked, offering his hand.

‘Yup, she’s my mom.’ Jon’s wide smile was genuine. Damian knew he could talk about his parents for hours if no one stopped him. (Sometimes, Damian didn’t stop him.)

‘Big fan of her writing. She here tonight?’

‘No, no. She had an important meeting that she couldn’t miss, but I’ll be sure to pass on your greetings. My dad’s here, though.’

Jon looked around until he found his father, and pointed. Both Stevens and Damian followed his gaze.

‘Clark Kent, right? Oh, wow, Mr Wayne, maybe you need to save him from your father.’

Clark was at one of the tables, his face pink and his expression somewhere between embarrassed and pleased. Damian watched his father encroach Clark’s personal space, one arm flung around the back of Clark’s chair, the other propped on the table, his chin resting on the heel of his hand. Bruce was talking at him, a steady stream of words Damian couldn’t hear. Clark seemed to mutter Bruce’s name every few sentences, colour high in his cheeks, but didn’t do anything else to stop the display.

‘Oh, uh, I’ll deal with that. Be right back, D.’ Jon touched Damian’s elbow before he darted off, the ghost of the touch lingering too long.

‘I didn’t know the Waynes and Lane-Kents were friends.’

Stevens threw another glance at Clark and Bruce before turning back to Damian. Jon weaved through the crowds, touching both their fathers’ shoulders and murmuring something. When he had finished, Bruce straightened and removed his arm from Clark’s chair. He said something and both Kents laughed. Damian kept an eye on the scene as he continued the conversation with the board member. He liked Lois’ writing, so he couldn’t be all bad, and Damian had decided that it would be good to be cordial with at least a few important business men. A board member of Wayne Medical definitely fit the bill.

‘Jon and I went to school together. West-Reeve in Metropolis.’

‘That’s a good school. So the two of you, you’re–?’

Stevens didn’t finish the question, but the finger he pointed at Damian and then in the direction of Jon made it clear. Damian considered the question, one eyebrow raised. He took a sip of his champagne.

‘I’m not quite sure I’m following, Mr Stevens.’ Damian intended his grin to be so kind as to be unsettling, and judging by Patrick Stevens’ expression, he succeeded.

‘Oh, um, nothing.’

Jon reappeared and curled his hand around Damian’s wrist.

‘Dami, there’s a _chocolate fountain_ ,’ Jon exclaimed, breathless, before he seemed to remember the stodgy old man. ‘Sorry, Mr Stevens, I need to steal my best friend for chocolate-related shenanigans.’

Stevens raised his champagne flute at Damian as Jon dragged him away. Damian let him pull him along, even though he knew that he should shake off Jon’s fingers, warm and soft against the inside of his wrist. Damian focused on his breathing when he remembered that Jon could hear his heart.

‘I would prefer they weren’t so obvious.’ Damian said as he impaled a strawberry and let the melted chocolate pour over it.

Jon shrugged, biting into his own strawberry. Damian didn’t look at him.

‘I dunno. This is like the only time they could be, like, in public at all.’

‘And what does your father think of being given the Bruce Wayne treatment?’

‘I think he thinks it’s funny. I mean, it’s a joke.’ Jon coated a graham cracker with chocolate and popped it whole into his mouth. ‘It’s a joke that’s funny to three people, him included, but still a joke.’

Damian made a non-committal sound and draped a mango wedge in chocolate. He didn’t understand it, Clark and his father and Clark and his wife and neither Bruce nor Lois seeming resentful of the other. The very idea of sharing made his stomach churn. Maybe there was something wrong with him. Maybe he was too jealous.

‘I mean, I wouldn’t want to do it,’ Jon said and brought another strawberry to his mouth. ‘But it works for Mom, it works for Dad, and it works for your dad. If everyone’s happy and no one’s getting hurt, it’s not really anyone else’s business, right?’

Damian shrugged. Jon was right.

Once Jon had had enough chocolate, they returned to mingling. They introduced themselves to more businessmen and businesswomen who all carried themselves with the same self-satisfied air and confident strutter. Damian saw several of them glance at him, then Jon, then back again, but no one asked. (Not that there was anything to ask about.) Jon snatched two champagne glasses from a passing waiter, giving Damian one of them. Their fingers brushed and Damian felt his pulse thundering in his ears.

As the evening wore on, the temperature in the manor rose. Damian’s suit felt stuffy and after two glasses of champagne, he felt the alcohol and heat rush like fever in his veins. He wasn’t drunk, not even tipsy, but it was loud and hot indoors. He needed fresh air.

‘I’m going outside.’ Damian said to Jon, leaning so he would hear him, even though he knew it was superfluous, even though he knew Jon could hear him from miles away.

Jon followed him, through the crowd, up the stairs, through the library to the balcony. Outside, it was quiet and dark. Jon braced his hands against the stone railing and sighed, satisfied.

‘It’s nice out here.’

Damian joined him at the railing. Jon’s face was lit only by the full moon, his eyelashes casting shadows on his cheek. The party had been too hot. Damian pulled off his jacket and hung it over the railing. Jon saw the movement and half-turned. Jon was looking at him. Really _looking_. Damian looked out at the grounds.

‘Hey, Damian.’ Jon’s voice was quiet. Damian turned his head to meet his gaze. His eyes were so _blue_. ‘You know I’m glad you were born, right? Like, I’m _really_ happy you were born.’

‘I had very little to do with that.’ 

‘Yeah, I know, but…’

Jon trailed off. The silence was heavy, expectant. Damian had only ever experienced a silence like this before battle. He heard the groaning of stone. Jon’s fingers pressed too hard against the stone, grinding it to dust. Without thinking about it, Damian reached out and touched Jon’s fingers. He had done this before, touching Jon to alert him of danger or show him that he was unintentionally using his powers or – but this was different. Jon’s eyes flickered to their hands, Damian’s fingers on his.

‘I’m just saying it’s nice. I’m so happy I know you.’

The silence stretched and stretched. Jon’s eyes were blue, far too blue. He had stopped pressing into the stone, but he didn’t move his hand from Damian’s. Jon’s eyes were asking a question Damian wasn’t sure he could bear. They were caught in a stalemate. That wasn’t new, but the resolution was.

Jon angled his face and brushed his mouth against Damian’s lips. Reconnaissance, Damian found himself thinking. When he didn’t move away, Jon leaned in and kissed him again, clumsy and innocent. Jon’s lips were chapped. He curled his hand around Damian’s neck and Damian felt the stone dust on his fingers. 

‘Happy birthday.’ Jon’s breath was warm on Damian’s lips, but not as warm as his mouth had been. 

‘My birthday was weeks ago.’

‘I know.’

Damian felt like he should say something. Maybe put a stop to this, pull the plug before it was too late. But, hell, it was already too late. Damian was all at once convinced that this had been unavoidable, that everything had been leading to this. It was always going to be this impossible boy with wild hair and wide eyes. Damian didn’t know how to say that, how to make this clear without clichés and embarrassing confessions.

So he kissed him instead.

Damian had never learned to kiss; it had never seemed like a useful skill to have, and to Damian, it seemed more distracting than good. He wondered if he should feel bad about that, if he was letting Jon down, but he could tell that Jon didn’t know what he was doing either. Their noses kept bumping and Jon giggled in-between kisses. The kissing was more heartfelt than good. Jon’s hands skated over Damian’s hair, like he wanted to run his fingers through them, like he wanted to pull Damian even closer. Jon’s tuxedo jacket was rough under Damian’s fingers. Damian didn’t know what to do with his hands so he brushed them over the jacket, down his lapels, along his waist, the dip of the small of his back, up his back. Jon didn’t have any product in his hair, so Damian ran his fingers through it, the curls soft and pliant under his roaming hands. Jon sighed into the kiss.

Kissing, it turned out, felt a lot like flying. There was the same swoop in his stomach, the same exhilaration, the same feeling that he had discovered some deep secret of the universe.

Jon rested his forehead against Damian’s, arms around his neck. He tilted his head, listening for something.

‘Your dad is trying to find you,’ he murmured.

‘I’m supposed to make a speech,’ Damian said, leaning in to kiss Jon again, because he was just inches away, because Jon would _let_ him.

‘Mm, fancy.’ Jon nuzzled against Damian’s cheek.

‘We should probably go downstairs.’ One more kiss, and Damian untangled himself from Jon. ‘Will you be there?’

What he meant was: _Will you be there for me_? He asked not because he was worried, or because he didn’t know the answer. He asked because he wanted to hear Jon’s _yes_ and see Jon smile, his laugh lines like rays of the sun.

Jon’s eyes sparkled in the moonlight, and Jon’s fingers were gentle where they brushed over Damian’s cheek.

‘Always,’ he promised.


End file.
